And in the end, perhaps love comes down to what we know and what we don't. About each other. The mystery and the knowledge. It's Day 100 and I've just now discovered that these days are not about learning something new about love, but about relearning what I've always known. What I've been taught.
That love is patient. It doesn't demand a baby or a house. It waits, knowing that good parts are ahead, even if they can't be seen. Even if there's nothing to get up to but an grumpy dog and a line of dishes in a house that's nearly sixty degrees.
That love is kind. A generous compassion that gives warm banana bread to strangers. And real love, between partners pulls this kindness from each other, challenging each to give more, to love more, to share each piece with everyone. Because we're all undeserving, and we all desperately need real love.
That love isn't jealous; even when he's lost five pounds in four days and had ice cream every night. Love doesn't sabatoge his success by hiding his running shoes. No, love encourages him and praises him and runs alongside him at five in the morning. Because his triumph is mine. Just like my struggle is his. We're together.
Love isn't arrogant either. When another marriage goes sour, love doesn't act like we've got it all together. Because wel fall so short of what we should be- of who we should be. Love knows the struggle, and so we get quiet when our friends get divorced. Because we know the grace that keeps us holding hands.
Love does not seek it's own. With love, his dreams become my dreams. And though the life that I thought I would have is not the one I do, I know this day to be better than any other I've imagined. Because with love, real love, we change. We become what the other needs. He reads to me. I dream in food. Both pieces of each other that have become our own identities. Because love cannot be selfish if it is to last. If it is to be more than a match that burns itself to ashes.
Love is not irritable or resentful. When the house is chilly and my nose is cold. When he wants to go to the gym and I just want to go home and crash. When he spends 62 dollars on two days worth of groceries. Love doesn't freak out. Because it knows that there's growth and blessing in letting it go. In submitting to each other. And no, that doesn't mean I agree with him getting a four wheeler, but it means I won't yell at him if he does.
Love seeks the truth. Like a missile aimed for heat, love searches out the truth in each other, splitting away the facade and the pieces that don't matter until the heart of each other is known. Love longs for something real, something solid and true to sink into and grow. And so I look at my husband and tell him what I know. That he is kind and strong. That he is brave. Love speaks these words aloud, because these truths are the ones that remain when the other pieces of our union start to shake.
Love bears all things. Including the doctor's office. And unemployment. Including a womb that feels empty and a bank account that really is. Love says it's going to be alright, even when neither of you know if that's true.
Love hopes all things. Love holds onto the promise that tomorrow could be better. It doesn't curl up in the fetal position and cry all night long. No, love uncurls itself and wraps its arms around him. Love accepts the cruelty of hope dissapointed, just to wait another day. Just to see what may be.
Love believes all things. That the passion will stay. That the future is worth fighting for. That forever is a very long time. Love believes all things because love wants to stay alive. And it's believing in each other that keeps it so.
Love never fails. It doesn't. Love is stronger than my husbands coffee. It is deeper than the dark night sky that twirls above our heads. Love is faster than the seconds of our lives that tick away, even now, more potent than a clove of my father's homegrown garlic. Love is life. And it doesn't not fail. It cannot.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Day 99: Evolution or Creation?
So the question remains; is there a perfect match for each of us, or is a happy marriage about finding someone compatible enough to stay with for a lifetime?
I've been asking this question every since I understood the concept of marriage and it's totality. And in the end it comes down to a matter of belief. That we evolved. Or that we were created. Because if we're a product of evolution, then our choice of mate might simply be characterized as a selection based on compatible qualities. Race, Religion, Wealth, Education. And the search for a spouse becomes formulaic as we latch onto the cloest match we can find. But if we are created beings with a specific destiny, then perhaps love is what happens when two souls realize that they were created for each other. Each being a lesser half, together they make up the whole. When you're part of someone in a way that goes beyond your self and your own survival, there is staying power. There's a reason to push through the duldrums and routine. Through the dissapointment. Because you were created to be together. And so you don't even think about quitting. At least not in a serious sort of way. You don't allow yourself to "what-if." You don't wonder if you'd already be a mother by now. Because you have your other. In a world where half of all marriages turn false, you've been blessed with something true.
I don't know if there's one man or woman created for each of us. But there is one thing I know; deep in the place where only truth resides, past all emotion, past all formulas. I know that my heart has found the one it longed for. That I am my beloved's and he is mine.
I've been asking this question every since I understood the concept of marriage and it's totality. And in the end it comes down to a matter of belief. That we evolved. Or that we were created. Because if we're a product of evolution, then our choice of mate might simply be characterized as a selection based on compatible qualities. Race, Religion, Wealth, Education. And the search for a spouse becomes formulaic as we latch onto the cloest match we can find. But if we are created beings with a specific destiny, then perhaps love is what happens when two souls realize that they were created for each other. Each being a lesser half, together they make up the whole. When you're part of someone in a way that goes beyond your self and your own survival, there is staying power. There's a reason to push through the duldrums and routine. Through the dissapointment. Because you were created to be together. And so you don't even think about quitting. At least not in a serious sort of way. You don't allow yourself to "what-if." You don't wonder if you'd already be a mother by now. Because you have your other. In a world where half of all marriages turn false, you've been blessed with something true.
I don't know if there's one man or woman created for each of us. But there is one thing I know; deep in the place where only truth resides, past all emotion, past all formulas. I know that my heart has found the one it longed for. That I am my beloved's and he is mine.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Day 98: The Next Step
We're in contract. After months of looking, we've made an offer, then accepted a counteroffer and now we're in contract. I should be excited. Instead, I say "Rich, can we just sit in the quiet for a minute." But he wants to vacumn and clean and move around our little rental on the beach. Says he can't sit still. The vacumn slides swiftly under my feet, followed by Micky; barking and snarling all kinds of unmentionable things. Without a word I get up and walk out the door. I walk toward the water, where there's space to think about why I feel so dissapointed.
The house is perfect. A small cape with over six acres of beautiful land, just down from a lake. Cathedral ceilings and a tiny garden house with Robins that come back every year. And on June 1st, it will be ours. We'll settle in.
But Rich and I were never the settling type. Our entire relationship has been defined by these crazy impulsive moments. A marriage proposal ten days after our first campfire. An elopement two months later. Resigning from meaningful (and good-paying) jobs to travel across the country and live in a pickup, ending up in Southern Oregon. Resigning again to move back east just ten months later. We fit together because we're the same soul. Wanderers. Seekers. And now we're going to buy a house. And when we buy this house, we're going to have to stay. And I'm afraid that we'll lose that same soul. I'm afraid we'll settle.
And so I'm marching across the beach trying to understand this sadness. Like a woman on her wedding day. I know I'm blessed and lucky and surrounded by love. But there's a little less to dream about. And I'm a little bit closer to being the person I never thought I would be. The one who stays. I turn in the wind and see my husband chasing after me. He grabs me and we stand there, still in our work clothes, holding onto each other. His wheezing breath is louder than the waves and I'm overwhelmed with my reality. A man who loves me. A home of our own. And then it doesn't feel like settling anymore. It feels like the next step.
The house is perfect. A small cape with over six acres of beautiful land, just down from a lake. Cathedral ceilings and a tiny garden house with Robins that come back every year. And on June 1st, it will be ours. We'll settle in.
But Rich and I were never the settling type. Our entire relationship has been defined by these crazy impulsive moments. A marriage proposal ten days after our first campfire. An elopement two months later. Resigning from meaningful (and good-paying) jobs to travel across the country and live in a pickup, ending up in Southern Oregon. Resigning again to move back east just ten months later. We fit together because we're the same soul. Wanderers. Seekers. And now we're going to buy a house. And when we buy this house, we're going to have to stay. And I'm afraid that we'll lose that same soul. I'm afraid we'll settle.
And so I'm marching across the beach trying to understand this sadness. Like a woman on her wedding day. I know I'm blessed and lucky and surrounded by love. But there's a little less to dream about. And I'm a little bit closer to being the person I never thought I would be. The one who stays. I turn in the wind and see my husband chasing after me. He grabs me and we stand there, still in our work clothes, holding onto each other. His wheezing breath is louder than the waves and I'm overwhelmed with my reality. A man who loves me. A home of our own. And then it doesn't feel like settling anymore. It feels like the next step.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Day 97: Putting in for a baby
"So I say we just put in for a baby and take whatever we get." We're in Target, in the baseball aisle, and I turn quickly knocking down three wiffle bats. Are we finally having this conversation?
"But if it's a boy, at least I know we can play catch. If it's a girl, she might get hit in the head.You know how girls catch." I make a mental note to be angry at this comment, but not right now. Because he's finally talking about adopting. Not in a casual maybe-someday kind of way. But not in a cozy come-here-and-let's-snuggle-while-we-talk kind of way either. I'll take what I can get.
We're close to buying a house. This is a big deal. Rich never had a house growing up- it was one rental after another. His family moved almost every year. He said he never put down roots. He never hung onto friendships. Because it hurt to much to move again and start over. And when we raise a family, he wants to do it right. So all this avoidance that I've thought to be reluctance is really just him wanting to be the kind of man who can give a child a home. And for the 97th time, I look at him in a new way. I see a part of this man that I didn't see yesterday.
So, yes, we'll be putting in for a baby. And we'll take whatever we get.
"But if it's a boy, at least I know we can play catch. If it's a girl, she might get hit in the head.You know how girls catch." I make a mental note to be angry at this comment, but not right now. Because he's finally talking about adopting. Not in a casual maybe-someday kind of way. But not in a cozy come-here-and-let's-snuggle-while-we-talk kind of way either. I'll take what I can get.
We're close to buying a house. This is a big deal. Rich never had a house growing up- it was one rental after another. His family moved almost every year. He said he never put down roots. He never hung onto friendships. Because it hurt to much to move again and start over. And when we raise a family, he wants to do it right. So all this avoidance that I've thought to be reluctance is really just him wanting to be the kind of man who can give a child a home. And for the 97th time, I look at him in a new way. I see a part of this man that I didn't see yesterday.
So, yes, we'll be putting in for a baby. And we'll take whatever we get.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Day 96: Foreclosures and such
We're hunting for a home and I keep falling for these houses that I know nothing about. A tiny cape in dark green, nestled in the forest. A modern house with wooden twisty stairs and a wood stove. An ancient farm house from Colonial Times painted bright red and tucked on 17 acres with original rock walls and a tiny pond. Over and over these perfect little places get me excited. I can picture us in each one. Wheeling barrows full of mulch and planting fruit trees. Walking the property like my parents do on Sunday afternoons.
But the dark green cape was already occupied- with ghosts perhaps, but also with garbage. The kind that piled out of the shed and hung in the corners of the loft. A strange unkempt feeling and the charm was lost. The modern house with twisty stairs was sold the day before we asked to see it. And the rustic Colonial was jammed with a lifetime of antique junk. They saved everything, including the house, pulling it back off the market a week after it's debut.
So much hope. So many expectations. And I can't helping thinking how similar this whole house hunting game is to finding a mate. At some point each of us is in the market for a partner. We meet all kinds of people. There are those we diregard immediately; we're just not attracted. There are others who catch our eyes, but they're looking for deeper packets. And there are people we meet who seem to be just what we're looking for. A perfect match. But eventually we see the garbage in their corners. The junk they have piled away comes spilling out of the shed, an avalanche of baggage and we run from their ghosts. It's just not worth the hassle. Then there are the ones we lose. The partners that would never be, as they were snatched up by some other buyer. Already taken. These would-be partnerships can drive a single girl (or guy, perhaps) crazy with what-ifs and could-bes until eventually the reality of being alone is impossible to ignore.
And then last weekend we saw a home. A two hundred year old house stapled up in vinyl siding and my heart just broke. A foreclosure, the occupants pulled apart the kitchen- tearing out cabinents, leaving empty scars on the tile. A sandy circle next to a busted deck showed where the pool once was. But the driveway is long with grassy hills on either side. Standing in front of this home, that I wouldn't have glanced at twice, I'm wondering if this could be the one. Because with people and houses, the outside is only the beginning. It's not until you get past the veneer that you see the value of a home- or a person. Perhaps it's better to choose the one that you can grow with. Whose imperfections you find charming. Even if the rest of the would doesn't see the value. I mean this house is going to take alot of work, but there's an appeal to falling in love with a fixer upper. Whether it's a house or a person, there is value in seeing each other at our worse. To know and be known.
And so I find myself wanting this house. Against all logic, I'm falling for it. I know it's torn apart inside, it's edges are rough and a little bit ugly. But I'm standing on the gravel wanting this place, even as I know it to be broken. And this is what love is. To see one another in our brokenness. Our rough edges and torn apart innards. To look and to know and to love, as is. Because there's a bit of a foreclosure in each of us. So we go ahead and choose each other and we work together until the shape of our union because the dream we've been looking for. A house. A marriage. Our home.
But the dark green cape was already occupied- with ghosts perhaps, but also with garbage. The kind that piled out of the shed and hung in the corners of the loft. A strange unkempt feeling and the charm was lost. The modern house with twisty stairs was sold the day before we asked to see it. And the rustic Colonial was jammed with a lifetime of antique junk. They saved everything, including the house, pulling it back off the market a week after it's debut.
So much hope. So many expectations. And I can't helping thinking how similar this whole house hunting game is to finding a mate. At some point each of us is in the market for a partner. We meet all kinds of people. There are those we diregard immediately; we're just not attracted. There are others who catch our eyes, but they're looking for deeper packets. And there are people we meet who seem to be just what we're looking for. A perfect match. But eventually we see the garbage in their corners. The junk they have piled away comes spilling out of the shed, an avalanche of baggage and we run from their ghosts. It's just not worth the hassle. Then there are the ones we lose. The partners that would never be, as they were snatched up by some other buyer. Already taken. These would-be partnerships can drive a single girl (or guy, perhaps) crazy with what-ifs and could-bes until eventually the reality of being alone is impossible to ignore.
And then last weekend we saw a home. A two hundred year old house stapled up in vinyl siding and my heart just broke. A foreclosure, the occupants pulled apart the kitchen- tearing out cabinents, leaving empty scars on the tile. A sandy circle next to a busted deck showed where the pool once was. But the driveway is long with grassy hills on either side. Standing in front of this home, that I wouldn't have glanced at twice, I'm wondering if this could be the one. Because with people and houses, the outside is only the beginning. It's not until you get past the veneer that you see the value of a home- or a person. Perhaps it's better to choose the one that you can grow with. Whose imperfections you find charming. Even if the rest of the would doesn't see the value. I mean this house is going to take alot of work, but there's an appeal to falling in love with a fixer upper. Whether it's a house or a person, there is value in seeing each other at our worse. To know and be known.
And so I find myself wanting this house. Against all logic, I'm falling for it. I know it's torn apart inside, it's edges are rough and a little bit ugly. But I'm standing on the gravel wanting this place, even as I know it to be broken. And this is what love is. To see one another in our brokenness. Our rough edges and torn apart innards. To look and to know and to love, as is. Because there's a bit of a foreclosure in each of us. So we go ahead and choose each other and we work together until the shape of our union because the dream we've been looking for. A house. A marriage. Our home.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Day 95: Sleeping Together
Seriously, I will punch you if you pull the covers off me. Just so you know. My voice is muffled from under the down comforter where I am cozily tucked and getting drowsy. And of course I would never sock him one. But sometimes when I'm drifting off to sleep, I'll reach the place where everything is warm. The drifting place, moments from sleep. My husband will turn to set the alarm clock and he'll take the entire down comforter with him as he turns leaving me cold and exposed and in a panic. It's a big deal. It's an ice-water in the face kind of big deal. So every night I threaten physical harm. And every night I stay warm.
Bedtime wasn't always this way. For the first few months, we tried to sleep romantically. My head on his chest. Spooning. Whatever. But you can's actually sleep with your head propped at a sixty degree angle and your shoulder wedged into his rib cage. It's romantic, but in the morning everyone is stiff and grumpy. Eventually we gave it up and deferred to our own sides, moving to opposite corners of the bed. Like boxers in the ring, we protected our space. More room. Better sleep. But I've just noticed now that we've changed.
I woke up last night with his elbow in my ear. I was dreaming that a hammer kept dropping on my head and I opened my eyes to this giant elbow against my skull. And it wasn't until I was nearly asleep, last week, that I realized his arm (not my own) was flung across my eyes, as if to block the sun. Instead of pushing him away, I tucked a little closer. I did a sort of half-shrug in my half-foggy mind and settled to find sleep anyway.
You can tell alot about a couple by how they sleep. From us, I can see that we started in a place determined by what we thought everyone did. We assumed that happy married couples slept in snuggly positions. And if we could only sleep this way, then we would stay happy. We would always be in love. When we realized this was ridiculous, we went the other way, defending our own space and clinging to our pillows instead of each other. But now we've found a sort of middle ground. A floppy elbow-in-your-head kind of sleeping place that says we're comfortable with each other. It says that we don't need to pretend to be romantic, but we still want to touch. I don't know where we'll be or how we'll sleep in another three years. But I know it will be together. And I know that I'll threaten to punch him if the covers come off. Just so you know.
Bedtime wasn't always this way. For the first few months, we tried to sleep romantically. My head on his chest. Spooning. Whatever. But you can's actually sleep with your head propped at a sixty degree angle and your shoulder wedged into his rib cage. It's romantic, but in the morning everyone is stiff and grumpy. Eventually we gave it up and deferred to our own sides, moving to opposite corners of the bed. Like boxers in the ring, we protected our space. More room. Better sleep. But I've just noticed now that we've changed.
I woke up last night with his elbow in my ear. I was dreaming that a hammer kept dropping on my head and I opened my eyes to this giant elbow against my skull. And it wasn't until I was nearly asleep, last week, that I realized his arm (not my own) was flung across my eyes, as if to block the sun. Instead of pushing him away, I tucked a little closer. I did a sort of half-shrug in my half-foggy mind and settled to find sleep anyway.
You can tell alot about a couple by how they sleep. From us, I can see that we started in a place determined by what we thought everyone did. We assumed that happy married couples slept in snuggly positions. And if we could only sleep this way, then we would stay happy. We would always be in love. When we realized this was ridiculous, we went the other way, defending our own space and clinging to our pillows instead of each other. But now we've found a sort of middle ground. A floppy elbow-in-your-head kind of sleeping place that says we're comfortable with each other. It says that we don't need to pretend to be romantic, but we still want to touch. I don't know where we'll be or how we'll sleep in another three years. But I know it will be together. And I know that I'll threaten to punch him if the covers come off. Just so you know.
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